Funny looking

My mom and I have this inside joke of sorts. It goes like this:

One of us says anything that ends in the word “funny”
The other of us says “funny looking – pow!

Example:

Mom (to Katye): “You’re funny!”
Katye: “Funny looking – pow!"

Get it? It’s funny, right?

I can’t claim credit – I learned it from Scrubs (you’ll see it in the first 20 seconds of this video).

 
We love this joke. We use it all the time. And if I start it, she’ll finish it for me (she’s got a mean “pow!” with the finger point action). But today I realized that this joke is going to be really painful when she dies. I probably won’t be able to use it, or even think it, without tearing up (and its not that funny of a joke...).

So I’m going to use it as much as I can while it’s just funny. Watch out world, anytime you say the word “funny” I’ll respond with “funny looking, pow!”

Best year of my life

The other day my dad said, “This has been the best year of my life.”

There was probably some context for this, but I can’t remember what it was. And it’s not really that important. Context or not, that sentiment is, to put it mildly, crazy.

It’s crazy that this year of catastrophe and trauma, hospital stays and emergency room visits, suffering, pain, fear, (insert negative emotion here) is the same as my dad’s best year of his life. His most memorable. His happiest. His all around best.

And yet, I feel it too. This year has been the shittiest year of my life (and yes, I know my life is only 26 years long, but I’m pretty much hoping it doesn’t get worse than this), and it’s also been the sweetest. It’s been the busiest, and it’s been the year I’ve been the most present. It’s been the most emotional, and it’s been the most true.

This year, or really year and three-ish months, has been the best year of my life. I’ve spent beautiful times with my family. I’ve felt the love and support of my friends. I’ve learned so much about myself and about Jesus. And I’ve had lots and lots of fun!

So, if my dad’s crazy, I guess I am too.

This has been the best year of my life. And you can quote me on that.

Life in death

I ran from pain. I ran from darkness. I ran from death. I did everything I could to stay happy, to stay healthy, to stay alive. I pinched and squeezed and manipulated the world until it fit my idea of perfection.

But underneath it all lay fear, and grief, and dissatisfaction. All my hidden motivations, my unmet needs, my forgotten hopes were churning, struggling to be heard. They infected my plans for the future, my search for vocation, my pursuit of my true identity.

But in death I have found true life.

In pain, everything has been stripped away. In entering the darkness, the motivations, needs and hopes that had so long been ignored were confronted. In death I have found true life.

It hurts. It hurts to enter into the darkness - whether you choose it, or whether it’s thrust upon you. It’s painful. It’s painful to surrender, to let go of my perfect world and to be in the muck. It’s humbling. It’s humbling to admit that the world I created for myself wasn’t whole, wasn’t real, wasn’t true.

But I have to. I have to surrender. I have to let go. I have admit to the Lord that I can’t do it on my own. I have to ask God “What can you do for me?” Because doing this on my own strength is insufficient. Because it’s too much for me to handle on my own. Because the darkness is too deep without him.

And in surrender there is freedom. Freedom to laugh, to cry, to fail, to grow. Freedom to become my self, my true self – flaws and all, living in a flawed world.

In death, I have found myself. In death, I have found my passions. In death, I have found true life.